Thirteen Diamonds Page 8

  “Fiat Money Madness?”

  “Oh, you are familiar with it?”

  “Well, I can't say I've read it all, but I did skim it and it seems to make sense to me.”

  “Good. Since you are a mathematician, Dr. Morgan—Lillian—I am glad to hear that. It is just as appropriate today as it was when he wrote it, perhaps more so with the launch of the Euro, yet another fiat currency.

  “I remember well when Gerald won the Nobel. He was very excited—we all were. We were excited for him and proud that we knew him. He flew to Stockholm for the presentation and told us about it when he returned. He said they ate dinner in a large building with gold mosaic tiles on the walls. Can you imagine? I'm afraid I'll never have that pleasure.”

  “If it's any solace, I never did, either. Uh, Benny, you said you had Gerald's papers. Would it be an imposition to ask if I could take a look at them? We have some people with fascinating backgrounds at Silver Acres, but we rarely get to delve into them. I'm interested not only for myself but for other people who knew him.”

  “No problem, except that there are several boxes of them. But there is an empty office near mine and you can spend as much time as you like on them. I have to teach a class this afternoon, but I'll fix you up before I go.”

  “Sandra, you and Winston don't want to hang around and be bored,” I said. “Why don't you go to the beach? I'm sure Winston would love to play in the sand.”

  “There's no doubt about that,” Sandra said, “but he'll also get dirty.”

  “That's what children do. But, fortunately, there's a shower in our room at the motel and a laundromat down the corridor.”

  Benny drove to our rental car. When Sandra and Winston got into the car he said to her, “I said that Gerald liked a pretty face. He must have liked you very much.”

  “I never met the man,” Sandra said, stiffly.

  She thinks that if a woman is beautiful and smart, inside, it shouldn't matter what she looks like outside.

  ***

  Two hours later I was still plowing through papers. Since I didn't know what I was looking for I might not know when I found it. However, I did begin to get a picture of Gerald, the professor. That he was well known I could tell by looking at his correspondence from all over the world; it had come by letter, and more recently, by e-mail.

  He had written a number of books. Benny gave me copies but I did no more than look at the dust jackets, dedications and forewords. Gerald had also written a lot of articles and op-ed pieces that had been published in journals and newspapers, including the Wall Street Journal. He had kept copies of most of the letters that he, himself, had written, apparently. And there were a lot of them.

  Then there were the newspaper clippings about him that filled up several scrapbooks. I got tired of reading them after a while. At the bottom of one of the boxes sat a three-ring binder. I opened it up and saw a title page with the words Fiat Money Madness and the subtitle Government Printing Presses and World Financial Chaos.

  This must be an early version of his book. It would be an exciting find for anybody who wrote a biography of Gerald, but not necessarily for me. Still, I was curious to see if any changes had been marked in the text. I turned the page. The title was repeated; then I got a shock. It said, “by Gerald Weiss and Maxwell Harrington.”

  I picked out a hardcover version of Fiat Money Madness from the books that Benny had given me. It listed Gerald Weiss as the sole author. I compared the opening paragraph of this book to that of the draft version. They were identical.

  The name Harrington didn't ring a bell, but with my memory problems that didn't mean anything. I had brought with me a list of the full names of all the major players so that I wouldn't be caught with a memory lapse, as I had been in Carol Grant's office. I pulled it out of my purse and consulted it. There was no Harrington on the list and I had never heard of one at Silver Acres.

  I compared the table of contents of the draft version of the book with that of the hardcover version. They were the same. I spot-checked portions of the text. I found a few minor differences: grammatical corrections, spelling, some wording changes, but nothing radical.

  ***

  When Benny returned from his class I showed him the title page of the draft version of the book. His face showed surprise, but he didn't say anything right away. He noisily sucked in air, wiped his fingers across his mouth and finally said, “Dr. Harrington was a professor in the Economics Department when I was a graduate student here.”

  “He must have worked on the book with Gerald,” I said, hoping to elicit more information from him.

  “I-I don't know. He had a stroke and became incapacitated; he died soon afterward.”

  “But that doesn't justify Gerald dropping his name from the book if he helped to write it. At the very least it's a copyright violation.”

  “Gerald would not have done anything like that,” Benny said, passionately. “He was a good man—good and fair. He always gave credit to me for the papers I co-authored with him—even when I was a lowly graduate student.”

  “I'm sure you're right. But everybody reacts differently to temptation. And I know from personal experience that academia is very competitive. Look at this situation. Gerald has co-authored a book that he realizes may be seminal—may even be in Nobel territory. Then his partner is put out of commission, unable to assert his contribution to this history-making event. If you were in Gerald's shoes, wouldn't you be tempted to take full credit?”

  “Of course. But Gerald was not like that. He was a cut above the rest of us.”

  “Now that he is gone you are proposing him for sainthood.”

  Benny managed a grim chuckle. “Perhaps.” He sucked in air. “But if word leaked out that Gerald had ever done anything unethical, it would tarnish his reputation. Just when his theories are enjoying a revival.” He looked hard at me.

  “I have no intention of publicizing this,” I said, hoping to set his mind at rest. “In fact, the only reason I'm interested in Gerald's past is because I think he may have been murdered.”

  “Murdered?” Benny sat down suddenly. “Tell me about it.”

  ***

  “Harrington. That's right. Please check the residents' roster for me tomorrow and call me back. Leave a message if there's no one here.”

  “I don't remember anybody named Harrington at Silver Acres,” Tess said, at the other end of the line.

  “I don't either,” I said, but you know how our memories are. Please, just check the roster.”

  “You're working on Gerald again, aren't you,” Tess said, accusingly.

  I was back in our motel room, keeping one eye on Winston, who had learned how to change channels on the television set using the remote control, while Sandra took a shower. She had picked up Mark at the airport and he had taken a room close to ours.

  I believe that my hearing is almost as good as ever, but between trying to answer Tess' charges, the television blaring (Winston had also found the volume control) and Winston babbling along with it, I guess I didn't hear Mark's knock on the door.

  He opened it with perfect timing just as Sandra stepped out of the bathroom, naked as a newborn babe. To say that both of them were surprised is understating the case by several orders of magnitude. I quickly told Tess I'd talk to her later and hung up the phone. Mark and Sandra stared at each other as if turned to stone. Mark got a full-frontal view of Sandra, as they say in movie ratings, and what he saw was exquisite.

  Finally, the tableau ended. Mark mumbled an apology and stumbled out the door. Sandra turned and hightailed it back into the bathroom. When he was gone she crept out again, wrapped in a wayward towel. The redness in her face was not just from the hot water of the shower.

  “I'll never be able to face him again!” she cried, dramatically, accenting her words with appropriate arm gestures.

  “Why not?” I asked. “You did a good job of facing him just now.”

  “Gogi, this isn't funny! We've only had one date.�
��

  “But that one date influenced him to come all the way across country to see you. And he certainly did—see you, that is. This will help to speed up your romance like nothing else. Men are very visual beings, you know, and you are certainly worth looking at.”

  Wrong thing to say.

  “Men are animals.”

  I did get her calmed down after a while. She got dressed and went out with Mark, which was the original plan, while I babysat with Winston. She said she would be back at 11. I glanced at my bedside clock when she tiptoed in. It showed ten minutes after one.

  CHAPTER 14

  “Lillian, when are we going to play some nim?” Mark asked as we ate breakfast at a cafe.

  He and Sandra were both very jovial this morning, so I guessed their date had gone well the night before. Winston was jovial too, banging his hands on the tray of his highchair.

  “What's nim?” I asked, eating a spoonful of oatmeal flavored with brown sugar.

  “That's the game you beat me at in the bar. Remind me never to try to put anything over on you again.”

  I laughed. “I saw it played in a movie long ago, but I didn't know the name of it. Listen, if you two will drop me off at the house of Gerald's grandniece, then you can take the car and do some sightseeing.”

  Unspoken was that they also had to take Winston. It wouldn't hurt to see up front how Mark reacted to having a baby around. That might determine whether he and Sandra would have more than just a holiday romance.

  “I'd like to take Sandy and Winston to the San Diego Zoo,” Mark said. “It's one of the best zoos in the country, and I think Winston will like the animals. I lived in Los Angeles when I was young and I loved to come here.”

  ***

  April Snow, Gerald's grandniece, lived in a house near the ocean in Pacific Beach, north of Mission Bay. When I had talked to her on the phone from home she said she worked a flexible schedule that enabled her to take every other Friday off. This was one of the off Fridays.

  Pacific Beach is a typical beach community, with a mixture of apartment buildings and small houses, sometimes on the same block. Many of the houses date back to post-World War II days and look like boxes. Overgrown with shrubbery, including birds of paradise and bougainvillea, the yards could use a good trimming. Ancient palm trees tower over everything, casting off fronds on windy days, to add to the feeling of clutter.

  April opened her door a few seconds after I rang the bell. I introduced myself and Mark, who had come up the walk with me from the car to see for himself that she wasn't an ogre. Satisfied in that regard, he excused himself and left to take Sandra and Winston to the zoo.

  April invited me in with a quick smile. She must be in her mid-twenties, with the kind of petite body that most women would kill for. She wore jeans and a T-shirt with an inscription proclaiming, “Southpaws do it left-handed.”

  “Have a seat, Mrs. Morgan,” April said, pointing to a faded blue sofa. “I'm making some herb tea; would you like a cup?”

  “Yes, thank you,” I said. I usually drink coffee but I figured herb tea wouldn't kill me. April disappeared into what I assumed was the kitchen while I looked around at older furniture, suitable for someone at least twice April's age. On a coffee table sat an issue of a surfing magazine; this led me to believe that she didn't live alone and that the other resident might be male.

  I was surprised that a young woman like April could afford to live in a house so close to the ocean, however small. As one got closer to the water, real estate values rose on an ever-steepening curve, which became vertical at the beach. Which led me to wonder just who her roommate was.

  If she supported the place herself she must have a good job. What did she do? A personal computer sat on what was probably the dinner table, with some fish swimming across the screen, but since everybody owned computers that didn't help.

  April returned, carrying a tray with two cups filled with hot water and an assortment of tea bags. I glanced at her hands as she put down the tray; she wasn't wearing any rings. I picked a container labeled peppermint, extracted the tea bag and dunked it in my cup.

  “The last time I saw Uncle Gerry was two years ago,” April said, offering me milk and sugar, which I declined. She continually brushed her red hair back from her freckled face. Was her complexion suited to suntan country? “After I finished college,” she continued, “I flew to the east coast for some job interviews and visited him at Silver Acres. He seemed to be quite happy there.”

  “I believe he was,” I said. “I know this is a personal question, but were you surprised that you were included in his will?”

  “I was zapped. I had never given it a thought. It was...very nice of him.”

  “You are the only person in his will.”

  “I believe my older brother and I are Uncle Gerry's only living relatives. He is ten years older than I am and lives in Boston.”

  “Your parents...?”

  “They're both dead. My mother died when I was young. My father died four years ago when I was in college. I inherited this house from them. Uncle Gerry's money will help me do some much-needed maintenance. And maybe bring the furniture up to date.” She waved her arm to encompass the room.

  “What kind of work do you do?”

  “I'm a computer programmer; actually, I'm called a software engineer, but it's the same thing.”

  “I've read that those jobs pay very well.”

  April smiled an infectious smile. “They do. Listen.” She bounced up from where she had been sitting on the edge of a chair. “I need to run some errands. Would you like to come with me? We can talk about Uncle Gerry on the way.”

  Why not? I didn't bother to point out that I hadn't finished my tea yet. The one-car garage held that enigma, a sport utility vehicle. Why everybody liked them I didn't know since most of them were driven primarily to work and they got poor gas mileage. I was good, however, and didn't ask her whether she had actually used the four-wheel-drive or driven it off a paved road.

  April drove briskly and I was glad I had my seatbelt fastened. When another car cut in front of her, forcing her to slam on her brakes, she swore at the driver and then apologized to me.

  “You should thank him,” I said. “He's paying you a compliment.”

  “Huh?”

  “Look at it this way. When he made you take action to avoid him he put his life in your hands. So in effect he's saying that he trusts that you are a good driver.”

  April laughed. “I'll remember that next time I feel like plowing into somebody.”

  Between stops at the dry cleaners, the bank, the supermarket and assorted other places, we carried on a running conversation about Gerald. I told her all I knew about Gerald's life at Silver Acres.

  April said, “I was 20 when Uncle Gerry moved to North Carolina. Before that, I had lived close to him all my life. My mother was his niece. Although I don't have much memory of her I suspect that he looked at her as the daughter he never had. When she died he transferred his affection to me. He was always doing things for me, buying me things. He even helped pay for my college education. I guess I shouldn't have been so surprised about his will.

  “I wanted to go back for his memorial service, but the company I work for didn't consider him a close enough relative to give me time off and the airlines weren't too keen on giving me a bereavement fare, either.”

  April parked and dashed into a store. She did everything at top speed, including talking. When she returned I asked, “Do you play bridge?”

  “Yes. In fact Uncle Gerry taught me how to play.” She giggled. “I played a lot in college—when I should have been studying.”

  I told her about the hand Gerald held when he died.

  “Thirteen diamonds! Wow, that's fantastic. I never had a hand like that.”

  “Neither have I.”

  I was about to tell her that the hand had been a fraud and lead in to the possibility that Gerald had been murdered—she seemed to have a level head on her shoulde
rs and I thought she could take it—when she said, “You know, Uncle Gerry was dealt a hand like that once before.”

  I was immediately all ears. “Thirteen diamonds?”

  “Yes. It was a long time ago, before I was born. But he used to talk about it all the time. And the strange thing was, he considered it to be bad luck, not good luck.”

  “Why was that?”

  “Because the man who was his partner when he got the hand was killed in an auto accident two days later.”

  “Did he ever tell you the name of the man who was killed?”

  “If he ever mentioned it, I have forgotten it.”

  “How about any of the other people he was playing with that night.”

  April shook her head as she drove through a light that had turned pink.

  I told her about my theory concerning Gerald's death, hoping that it wouldn't make her driving any more exciting than it already was. The news naturally upset her and she asked questions. This led to a discussion of the shellfish and I asked if she knew about his allergy.

  “It doesn't ring a bell. I guess it wasn't something he talked about every day.”

  “Have you heard of a professor named Maxwell Harrington?”

  “No.”

  I decided not to tell April about the possibility that Gerald had appropriated Dr. Harrington's work as his own. Instead, I asked, “Do you know of anybody—associates, friends, acquaintances—who had a reason to dislike him?”

  She thought about this for a while but couldn't come up with any names.

  Before we returned to her house she drove me to the beach where we took a stroll near the pier. A hotel there featured bungalows on the pier, sitting directly above the water. Various types of people walked, ran or biked on the path by the beach, including a man with a dark tan wearing a long, flowing Indian headdress and little else, especially in back.

  April laughed when I did a double-take at his retreating backside and said, “So you still look at buns.”